


You've got to save him somehow

by huddledintrenches



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 15:59:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huddledintrenches/pseuds/huddledintrenches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There have been countless times when Adam has had to tell himself that he’s not actually gay, but that he’s just really into this one guy. Apparently, he grudgingly has to concede, when it comes to saving Fergus’ arse, it’s other guys too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You've got to save him somehow

“Keep calm. Don’t be too nervous. Play it cool. For god’s sake don’t try to flirt with Baroness Sureka, unless you want to be skinned alive, which will be very bad for your career in case you were wondering. Just… try to talk as little as possible. You can do this, Fergus, if you just keep it together for a few hours. It’ll all work out.”  
Fergus tries to remember everything he and Adam went through before entering the enquiry and hopes it will help, even though he already knows that of course it won’t.  
They’re well and truly fucked, no matter how well he does now or how much he fucks up. He never expected Tucker to let the cat out of the bag so spectacularly, and so publicly, only for that same cat to claw his eyes out and rape his career in the most painful of ways.  
When he told Adam to arrange a meeting with Dan Miller, he had hoped it would bring him some sense of security, some way for him to stay where he is now, and maybe piss into Peter Mannion’s afternoon brandy in the process. In retrospect, he should have known this was going to be used against him, even if he hadn’t expected it to come from the direction of Malcolm Tucker, who previously had never even cared to look at him twice. Being Fergus Williams, he has always made himself believe that was because he’s actually doing an alright job at being a junior minister, and not because he virtually possesses no power at all.  
For a fleeting moment he hopes that maybe if he thinks about the whole affair for long enough he will simply drop dead out of sheer embarrassment, which sounds like a fantastic idea until his inner, suspiciously Adam-ish voice tells him to man the fuck up and just get it over with.  
So Fergus goes in and tries to play it cool. This, being a sensible enough idea for any other human being in the world, turns out to be a spectacularly bad one when it comes to him, for whenever Fergus Williams tries to play anything remotely cool – as numerous ex-girlfriends and –lays will be able to testify –, what is most likely to come out of his mouth are a number of obscure pop-culture references and a few weak attempts at bonding.   
Adam watches Fergus’ appearance over one of the television screens in the lobby, trying incredibly hard to ignore the gloating texts from Phil being sent to his phone almost minutely, because he thinks that if he reads them and has to admit to himself just how royally his personally assigned junior-minister-slash-toddler is presently fucking up, he’ll have to resort to drowning kittens in the lobby’s rather luxurious water fountain. Instead he clenches his fists into one of the armchairs placed around the screen, not knowing whether to puke or devise the epitaph Fergus will sorely need once he’s done with him.  
When Fergus leaves the enquiry about an hours later he struggles to remember anything beyond the fact that this was without a doubt the worst day in all of his political career and that he ended it with fucking skinflakes.  
The lift doors open to a very furious special advisor, whose hand digs into his shoulder as he leads him out of the door, past the few bored photographers who couldn’t get a seat inside the enquiry and have been tasked with watching everyone go in and out, and into a cab. 

Fergus is woken up by the soft thuds of one of Adam’s tennis balls ricocheting off of the wall and back into his hand. He’s often like this, when Fergus or someone else has fucked things up for them and he’s had a few hours to cool down.   
If it’s Fergus who’s gotten them into the mess, he’s devised a strategy of dealing with Adam’s anger that will work 90 % of the time, which starts with Fergus’ hands on Adam’s legs in the back of a cab and Adam’s back pushed up against a wall once the door has fallen closed behind them. When Adam’s in bed later, smoking the clichéd cigarette after – which Fergus fucking hates, for the record – he knows he’s forgiven. (Not that they’d ever talk about it like that, of course, they’re not poofs, mind.)  
Then, the next morning, he’s often awoken by Adam absent-mindedly throwing one of his tennis balls onto the wall - his muscles rustling the sheets ever so slightly - thinking their way out of the problem because one of them has to.  
Fergus closes his eyes and listens to the soft sounds of the ball meeting the wall. Thud. Thud. Thud.   
“I have no idea how we’re going to get out of this one”  
His eyes are still shut when Adam aims a little more to the left and the ball hits his face. He lets out a number of expletives in the direction of his bastard of a special advisor, which are, as always, completely lost on him, who just chuckles.  
“Of course you don’t know how to get out of this. You’re the one who sent us down this road in the first place. I, on the other hand” – Adam smirks devilishly – “am fucking brilliant.”  
Fergus yawns, grumbling as his hands strokes over the spot where the ball hit him. “Come on then, what’s the plan?”  
Adam kisses his forehead and Fergus’ chest clenches in a way that is too sweet to be feeling good. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.”  
“Wanker.”

There have been countless times when Adam has had to tell himself that he’s not actually gay, but that he’s just really into this one guy. Apparently, he grudgingly has to concede, when it comes to saving Fergus’ arse, it’s other guys too.  
It takes him not more than a few hours to figure out where Simon Weir spends his evenings. The biggest advantage of having worked at the Mail, if only at the night desk, is that it grants you access to a wide web of contacts that knows a disgusting amount about the nightly whereabouts of nearly everyone who’s ever spent more than 5 minutes in Westminster.   
To Adam’s positive surprise, the youngest of the enquiry panel is rather predictable in his night-time endeavours. The bar he frequents is one of the few ones in the area that is almost exclusively visited by the younger generation bred by Westminster, the closest thing the political melting pot of London has to a trendy venue.  
Adam turns up two nights in a row, ordering a beer and sitting himself down in the corner of the bar in order to spot Weir right away should he walk through the door. By his calculations, he has about a week to save Fergus’ skin. It’s on the third day that Weir actually turns up.   
It’s a weekday, one of the less busy ones around here, so it’s just the two of them and a couple of young Tories a few tables away.  
Adam watches him order before gingerly walking over, taking the chair next to him and beckoning the bartender for another beer.   
“Adam Kenyon”, he says he offers the lawyer his hand.  
It takes Simon a while to remind himself of who his opposite is, but when he does, his lips curl into a smile. “I’m not sure I should be talking to you, Mr Kenyon.”  
He takes Adam’s hand, shaking it, whilst his the other man returns the smile in a way that would be enough reason for some people to follow him home and shag him senseless.  
“Oh, come on, Simon. - Can I call you Simon? – We’re both grown-ups and it’s not like this has anything to do with the enquiry. I just… overheard some old friends talking about you a while back and wanted to see if there was any truth in your reputation.”  
Simon raises an eyebrow, and Adam can tell he’s trying to be nonchalant. “And what reputation might that be?”  
Adam gestures towards his drink, finishing his own as he does so. He didn’t expect the lawyer to be fond of Scotch, but he’s almost certain it’s going to help rather a lot with the execution of his plan.  
“Well, they say you’re very professional. Hardly ever let your guard down. They wonder what you’re like underneath your mask” They didn’t say it like that, obviously, Adam thinks as he smirks in the direction of his companion. However, there is a grain of truth in the statement.   
Little is known about what Simon Weir gets up to in his private life, or rather who he does it with. However, Geoffrey at the Guardian has a pretty distinct idea ever since he saw him drunkenly coming on to his boss’ husband back at their firm’s Christmas party in 2007. Obviously, since no one had heard of Simon back then, that information has been quite useless to any reporter and Adam’s sure they’ve all forgotten about it until now. He, however, didn’t forget and is planning to use it to his advantage.  
Simon laughs quietly. “Yeah, sure they say that”  
It takes a few drinks to get him to open up. He’s really rather shy, and as with any of his more introverted lays, Adam can’t decide whether he finds that cute or irritating. He can’t help but being a bit flattered when Simon stumbles over his words trying to respond to his flirtations, and answers by placing a hand on his knee, grinning brightly at the look on Weir’s face.  
It’s very easy after that. Adam orders another round for both of them, and once Simon’s finished, he calls them a cab. They’re clever enough not to go any further there, of course, and Adam has the satisfaction of seeing Simon shiver ever so slightly as he whispers a suggestive “Yours or mine?” into his ear.  
The cab takes them to the lawyer’s Hamstead flat, and when Adam sees it he’s slightly disappointed that this is only going to be a one-night stand. It’s certainly more luxurious than anything Fergus has ever been able to afford, and, Adam notes appreciatively, Simon has a sense of order and cleanliness that he’s certain the big child of a junior minister has been born without.  
He takes off Simon’s coat for him once they’re inside, smiling as he kisses him just after the door has shut behind them. His lips don’t taste as nice as Fergus’ do, but then again, neither do most girls’. Adam takes the lead, pushing the both of them toward the leather-sofa in the big living room. He hums appreciatively when Simon gives out a low moan as he softly bites his lips – a trick that has always worked incredibly well when trying to distract Fergus from whatever he’s currently doing and get him into bed.  
What follows is a desperate clambering of hands – mostly Simon’s – onto shirts – mostly Adam’s, a tearing of clothes and two pairs of lips insistent on not leaving each other. Somewhere along the line, Adam’s hands get lost in Simon’s hair, and he realises that if he closes his eyes and loses himself in the moment, it almost feels like Fergus’, when it’s messed up and disheveled and for once Fergus couldn’t care less.  
Lost in the fantasy, it’s almost too easy to slide down the lawyer’s body, caress skin and scars that he pretends he’s seen before, suck on pink flesh and run his fingers along muscly lines that vaguely resemble the ones he’s come to know so well. Adam thinks he might like this, if he was actually gay and just tried a little harder, and if Simon was just a tiny bit more… like Fergus. But it’s not about enjoying it, he thinks as he slides off the lawyer’s trousers nonchalantly, skillfully bending down to suck his way down to the brim of Weir’s pants, whose hand finds its way into Adam’s hair, guiding his way further downwards. Adam’s grins, happy in the knowledge that he’s fucking amazing at this.  
He looks into Simon’s eyes, then, maybe because his guard’s slipped and the bubble he’s been in has burst, or maybe simply because he wants to give the other man another chance at blowing his mind. It’s the look on his face that makes him almost certain that’s not going to happen.  
Adam has never been one to lose his cool, and so when he sees Simon Weir, his face needy and drained of all possible composure, he somehow suddenly wishes he were far away. But he has never been one to reveal insignificant details such as this to his sexual partners, and so he closes his eyes and thinks of the proverbial Queen and country as he takes him into his mouth and gives him a run for his money.  
Simon Weir wakes up on his couch the next morning, the last night a blurry haze in his mind. There’s no sign of Adam Kenyon anywhere in his flat, but he finds a note on his kitchen counter carrying his name.   
‘I’m sure you’d like for this to stay between the two of us, Mr Weir. Should you agree to put in a good word for me and my boss, I can guarantee you no word of this will ever reach anyone apart from the two of us.”

Adam goes home only to shower and put on some fresh clothes, after that it’s a cab ride to Fergus’ flat and a huge grin on his face that he can’t shake off. He rings his boss’ doorbell, having to fight as hard as possible to refrain from doing a little happy dance.  
A sleepy Fergus opens the front door and that’s when it occurs to Adam that it’s shortly after 6 in the morning and he should have probably waited for a bit, but then again he’s fucking amazing and so Fergus will just have to deal with being thrown out of bed.  
“Guess who just saved your sorry arse”, he grins, pushing past Fergus in order to throw himself onto his couch.  
Fergus, who has never been particularly good at processing any kind of information in the early morning, just blinks and turns around to face him. “I don’t know… you?”  
Adam’s smile widens as he beckons his sleepy junior minister over, already used to being more of a babysitter than a special advisor in the mornings. He wraps his arms around Fergus’ waist, for once not caring about the implications because fuck that, he’s happy, he’ll do whatever he wants because he saved them like he always does. “That’s right. Me.”  
He leaves Fergus on the sofa and marches into the kitchen, humming as he makes coffee for both of them. When he returns, Fergus’ hands clamber around the cup and Adam watches amusedly as he becomes a little more awake with every sip.  
“Are you going to stare at me for the rest of the day or are you going to tell me how you did it?”  
Adam’s grins. “Sure. Well, you know Simon Weir, the lawyer from the Hobbs firm?” Fergus nods. “I gathered that if we could get him onboard, he’d put in a good word for us at the enquiry. Make sure you come out nice and clean. So I shagged him. I’m pretty sure he’d rather let a bunch of Lib Dems get away with a yellow card than see his name all over the Sunday pa-”  
He doesn’t get to finish the sentence when Fergus’ mug slips from his hands and smashes onto the floor.  
“Jesus Christ, Fergus! What the fuck?” Adam jumps, coffee spilling all over his shoes.  
Fergus is on his feet in a heart beat. “So you SHAGGED HIM? So whenever we have a problem you’re just going to FUCK whoever’s most convenient for you? Is that how it works? Did you – Jesus, did you even think about this?” He’s almost fuming with rage, then, and Adam could swear that he can almost see a tear forming in his eye.  
“Yeah, so what? It didn’t mean anything. It was just some guy, and it’s not like you had a better idea. You could be a little more thankful, Fergus, I only did this to save your skin”  
Fergus’ face is full of rage, and Adam thinks that this is worse than the time when Mannion’s son beat him at squash. “Oh come on, as if you thought of anyone but yourself, you fucking twat. I bet you fucking loved it, shagging some posh Oxbridge cunt, you just needed an excuse to do it, that’s all”  
“Fuck you! I saved you, I saved us – you know what? Yeah, it was great, he was way better than you, actually, I only came back to tell you what a fucking pathetic loser you are!”  
That’s when Fergus’ fist lands in Adam’s face. It takes a moment for that to sink in because Fergus has never gone so far as to actually hit him and before he can come to terms with what’s just happened, the fucking cunt’s pulled him off his feet, shaking him as his hands are tangled in his shirt.  
“I FUCKING LOVED YOU, YOU DICK”, Fergus screams, and he can actually see the tears, then, “I LOVED YOU AND YOU HAD TO GO AND FUCK SOME GUY AND COME BACK HERE AND FUCKING BRAG ABOUT IT”  
He stumbles away from him, sinking back onto the sofa, burying his head in his hands. Adam is left speechless, for the first time since he can remember, but at least now he has the courage to feel bad about what happened.  
“Fergus, I-“ He flinches when Adam touches him and Adam wishes that fact wouldn’t hurt as much as it does. He pulls away, and doesn’t know where to look when he says “I’m sorry.”  
Fergus doesn’t look up. “Just leave. I can’t see you right now”  
And so Adam leaves. He takes the Tube home because he’s sure that if he tries to talk to anyone right now, he’ll crack.

They don’t see each other for a while after that. Adam knows Fergus would never call in sick at work in order to avoid him, so he does it for him because he knows how little his boss wants to see him right now.  
He watches the enquiry on the television, every day a little more scared of Weir standing up and informing the world of what happened between them. Look here, people of England, I have done sexual things with Adam Kenyon.   
He has a few days left until it’s his turn to appear before the panel, and he’s dreading it more by the hour. He can’t tell why it is that what seemed like such a good idea fills him with so much fear now, but he prefers not to think about it and wash down the thoughts with a good deal of whiskey.  
But it’s Fergus he’s really scared of. It’s become absurd, how much he wants to hear from him now, how much he wants to go over and apologise and feel absolutely terrible again if only to see his face, see how he’s doing. This is the first time he’s had to make something up to Fergus, and he has a pretty clear idea that shagging him to make him forget what an idiot he is won’t do. Fergus isn’t as easy as him.  
When he checks his phone for a message from Fergus for the third time in an hour because he thought he saw the display light up, he’s actually disgusted of how much he’s beginning to behave like a psychotic ex.  
He doesn’t do well without Fergus, which is weird considering that it’s usually Fergus who cannot get a single thing done properly if he’s not there to hold his hand, metaphorically or otherwise.

Adam meets Emma and Phil in the lobby before the enquiry, and for the first time their mocking him makes him feel nothing but indifference. He doesn’t even have the heart to come up with a sarcastic response, even though that doesn’t mean he’s not worried they’ll know something’s up.  
He’s foolishly hoped that Fergus might turn up and when he doesn’t he feels even worse than before because that means he’d rather spend his day in his office hiding from Stewart and Mannion than just turn up and look at him.  
He’s terrified from the moment he sets foot into the panel room on. He avoids Weir’s gaze as much as he can, his hands mostly grasping the glass of water in front of him, and addressing only the rest of the panel when he’s asked a question. Adam thinks that he’s never felt worse in his life, and then immediately after that he deserves this.   
Once they get out, he can’t believe Weir didn’t say anything, but it doesn’t really help with the way he feels. Adam thinks that maybe he should have exposed him, and that the backlash from the press would have thrown him out of politics altogether, and then maybe Fergus would be happy. He doesn’t even have the heart to tell himself how pathetic that thought is, but he suspects that if he goes on like this he’ll end up as a second Terri once she finally gets forced to retire.

Adam actually turns up at work the next day, because he thinks that if he bunks off again he’ll be out of a job, and when it comes down to it he kind of doesn’t want to go back to only seeing Fergus’ face in the newspapers.  
When he arrives in the morning, his boss is already in his office and successfully ignoring the fact that Adam Kenyon is also a human being that still exists. Were he in a better mood, Adam would actually take some time to admire how much of a primary school child Fergus can be when he’s mad.  
He gets through to lunch by working on one of Phil’s worst policy ideas, if only to prove that he’s still the best and can turn anything that that Oxbridge twat’s shat on into gold. At 12 o’clock he’s already so deadly bored that he resorts to making a slingshot out of biro-pens and a piece of string and throwing paper balls at people coming in and out of DoSAC. He almost cheers up a bit when three of them nestle into the back of Emma’s hair and the civil servants start giggling whenever she passes by.  
Then, at 3, Adam tells his guilty conscience to grow a pair and marches into Fergus’ office. He barely waits for the door to fall shut behind him before beginning to speak.  
“I’m sorry, right? I was a fucking idiot and I wish I could tell you why I did it because right now I don’t even know anymore. All I know is that it was awful, and I could live with myself if it was just me hating myself, but it’s you too and that… The point is, Fergus, I love you. Too. You said that, the other day, and I’m not gonna say it again because I’m not… queer or anything. It’s just that if you don’t want to see me again after this, at least I’ve said it. Or whatever.”  
He runs his hand through his hair nervously once he’s finished, expecting Fergus to say something, anything, or maybe just look at him because he remembers that it can feel quite nice when he does that. He’ll be ok even if he shouts again, he thinks, because then at least Fergus will be acknowledging his existence.  
And so when his boss stands up, his face unreadable, Adam half expects him hit him again. Which he doesn’t do, to his surprise.  
Instead he smiles, albeit only ever so slightly. “Get a grip, Adam. Mannion’s getting bollocked by Stewart because he’s found out about his phone call to his hack best friend and we’re missing it because you’re stood in my office… having a moment”  
Swallowing half a ton of relief, Adam returns his grin and when they walk out together to get a better view of Stewart attempting a public execution, he knows he’s not even close to being forgiven, but that eventually, he will be.


End file.
